


12 days

by Lunasong365, sous_le_saule



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, France (Country), M/M, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: A holiday romance involves many elements – a beach, food, fun, sight-seeing – but the primary ingredient is two people who otherwise never would have met.In this fic, Anthony Crowley speaks French, and Ezra Fell tries.





	1. 5 July 2016 (day 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [12 jours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519349) by [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule). 



> Original Author's Note: You go on vacation and you say you’re going to use it to detox from an overdose of Good Omens, you put your ass on the beach the first day and you hear a donut vendor cry: Apple Donuts! Since apple = Crowley, you have a flash of inspiration. And you start to write a little bit every day during the afternoon siesta. So much for the detox.  
> I hope you will have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. As always, please don’t hesitate to comment. Encouragement, criticism: everything is welcome.
> 
> For this story, I took a bit of liberty with how universities in Montpellier and London operate (I used Belgian universities as a model), and probably also with French legislation of student jobs. Mea culpa.
> 
> Some current events are mentioned in this fic. However, it would have been inappropriate to incorporate the terrorist event in Nice (July 2016, when the fic was originally written) and the characters will not talk about it. Let’s just say that this alternate universe is more peaceful than our world. Thoughts to the victims and their families.
> 
> For Luna: for Costa Rica ;) and also because of Ezra.
> 
> Translator's note: Oui. C’était mon cadeau. Et on fait qu'on veut avec un cadeau. Je veux le partager ceci avec tout le monde.  
> Yes. This is my gift, and one can do with a gift what they want. I want to share it with everyone.
> 
> I fear that in this translation some of the original charm of the French language (and Ezra’s attempts to speak it) is lost in my Americanized English. But I know it is still delightful and I am very pleased to present it to an English-reading audience.
> 
> Author's note: And Luna offers me now a marvellous gift in return, by translating this and sharing it exactly one year after I wrote it. I wanna thank her for this beautiful translation, for her sensitivity and for her patience.

“Donuts! Cold drinks!”

Anthony wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He quickly made an inventory of what he had left. It had been a good day. On his fourth day of work, he’d finally begun to find his rhythm. Walking on the sand all day pushing the cart under the hot Mediterranean sun was more tiring than he’d thought it would be, but the job was not unpleasant, and he enjoyed the warmth.

At any rate, he could not afford to be fussy. He absolutely needed a summer job. His plan A had fallen through at the last moment and he hadn’t had a plan B. So when a buddy had asked him to step in to replace him at short notice, he’d jumped at the chance.

He reached the end of the beach. In this small seaside resort near the city of Montpellier, it consisted of a long strip of sand about 15 meters wide, interrupted by modest breakwaters that marked the limits for swimmers and sunbathers.

Once he returned to his starting point, his day would be finished. He cordially nodded to two old ladies who crossed the beach before him at a brisk pace, and they smiled back at him. In a few days, the grandchildren would arrive. It was a good idea to cultivate his future clientele.

There were only a handful of people left on that section of sand, and Anthony was about to turn around when a man sitting in a folding chair waved at him before putting his book down and getting up.

Anthony quickly summed up his client so he’d remember him the next couple of days. In his forties, his hair blond and slightly curly, the man was pale like the typical newly-arrived tourist. However, by sitting under a beach umbrella in a short-sleeved shirt and Bermuda shorts (Anthony had noted the tartan pattern with disbelief), the man was never going to get a little color. 

 

“Bonjour! Vous avez des beignets au chocolat?”

English, by the accent. Gay, by… everything else.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing left but two apple donuts.”

The man sighed with good-natured disappointment.

“Ah, you responded in English. Is my French that bad?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Sorry, I thought it would be easier for you.”

“I would prefer to continue in French. I thought that while I’m here it would benefit me to practice mine as I’m a bit…(he searched for the word half a second)…rusty.”

“You are doing very well. Do you come to France often?”

“I’ve been to Paris a few times, but it seems like it’s been centuries.”

“And you said to yourself that you’d better come before your country quits Europe?” Anthony playfully chided.

“Eleven.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been asked that same question, more or less, eleven times since setting foot in France. And I just arrived last night,” the man said mischievously.

Anthony grimaced. “So much for originality. We feel a bit rejected, I guess.”

“I voted against Brexit, for what it’s worth...”

“It was a thoughtless remark on my part. Well, this is the end of my day. As typical, the children were all over those chocolate donuts.”

“Eh, then never mind.”

“Honestly, the apple ones are better. Normandy apples, not too sweet. Easier to eat than sticky chocolate in this heat.”

The man smiled broadly. It totally transformed his looks. His eyes, while unquestionably intelligent, suddenly looked clear and bright.

“Who could resist such a sales pitch? I’ll take an apple donut.”

Anthony wrapped it in a napkin and pocketed the money.

“Thank you. See you tomorrow. By the way, my name’s Anthony.”

If customers knew his first name, they’d be more likely to buy from him rather than that loser who also sold donuts on the beach. Unless he used the same method. But he seemed less likely to use sales techniques.

“Ezra Fell,” the man returned, holding out his hand, offering more than just his first name.

The young seller took his hand and, as the other man had given his surname, politeness required him to do the same, despite his reluctance.

“Nice to meet you. Anthony Crowley.”

Ezra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t sound very French.”

_And there it is._ Once again, he had to explain.

“My father is English.”

“Ah. That explains your more than acceptable accent. Especially for a Frenchman.”

Anthony observed the amused gleam in the man’s eyes.

_He’s trying to mess with me._

“I deserved that, I suppose. Shall we call a Franco-English truce?”

“Well said. See you tomorrow, Anthony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to share my vacation photos so you can get an idea of the setting. First, this is the beach where this story takes place:
> 
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147589713362/


	2. 6 July 2016 (day 2)

Ezra set up his chair and umbrella in the same place as the day before. In every new place, humans quickly stake out a territory. He’d spent the morning in one of the markets typical of the south of France, and then had wisely waited until four o’clock before heading to the beach. To avoid the hottest hours, prolonged exposures, etc.

He sat down and pulled a book from his bag. Before opening it, he could not help counting. Just after the end of the academic year, he’d decided to allow himself twelve days of total rest. A colleague had kindly lent him a small cottage a few steps from the beach in this seaside resort, miraculously still not too touristy, and frequented almost exclusively by French families. She would then stay there for a month, as she did every year.

Until 22 August, when planning meetings and orientation courses would begin, Ezra had 36 days of leave. It seemed like a lot. But it was sufficient for everything he had to do: prepare a new course, respond to tons of professional emails that his end-of-term grading had not left him time to answer. And write a speech about Oscar Wilde, which he was scheduled to present at an academic conference in August. Not to mention that he’d volunteered to teach some remedial English classes. To top it off, the dean had asked him to write an article for the September edition of the faculty newsletter, and Ezra had found it difficult to refuse.

He sighed. _Don’t think about your work right now_ , he admonished himself. He delved into his reading with delight.

He was soon interrupted by the patter of a donut vendor. But he wasn’t the same one as yesterday. He wasn’t hungry at the moment, and returned to Baudelaire.

“Donuts, cold drinks!” Ezra looked up to see Anthony approaching. Five o’clock, same as yesterday. Perfect time to quiet his stomach with a snack before dinner, which was taken very late in the south. Ezra liked to respect local customs.

A group of teenagers rushed to the cart to buy sodas. Ezra watched, amused, at the lovelorn glances several of the young girls were directing toward Anthony. He was not the most muscular boy on the beach; far from it. Several of the young men in swim trunks displayed athletic bodies. Anthony, in shorts and t-shirt, appeared to have a slender, wiry frame with lanky limbs. But he had an undeniable charisma, with his dark hair, high cheekbones, and gestures full of grace and assurance.

Ezra couldn’t understand why the girls didn’t notice, despite Anthony’s captivating smile, that it was upon their friends his eyes lingered, oh, just a little too long. It seemed obvious to him.

_And?_  

_And nothing. Simply an observation,_ he answered himself, with a touch of annoyance.

Since he’d asked himself the question, he almost didn’t call out to the vendor. But he then changed his mind.

“Good afternoon!”

“Hello, Ezra, How are you doing today?”

He was surprised to hear himself called by his first name. Then he understood. _You’re using a pitch to appeal to me, just like with those kids. Just to sell donuts._ He was well-versed in these shenanigans among students of his who tried to be a little bit too familiar. He’d quickly put them in their place with an acerbic remark indicating that he was not one to be fooled with.

However, in this case, Anthony was not trying to butter him up for a generous adjustment of his grade. He just wanted to sell a donut and Ezra wanted to buy one. No ulterior motive was meant.

“Do you have any chocolate left today?”

“Unfortunately, no. Just apple and apricot. But…” added Anthony, as if to apologize, “I made iced tea this morning. I’ll give you a free drink with the purchase of a donut.”

“That’s very tempting. Sold. Apple, please.” Ezra handed him the coins with a smile. “You’re good.”

Anthony appeared momentarily disconcerted at the exposure of his sales ploy, then decided to laugh.

“Thank you. I’m trying to apply what I’ve learned. I study economics and marketing.”

_Not surprising._ He could probably sell double glazing to people who already had it.

“Do you go to the University of Montpellier?” asked Ezra to make conversation while sneaking a covert look at what it said on the young man’s t-shirt ( _Too hot for heaven, too cool for hell_ , he read).

“Yes. But I’ve gotten a scholarship to spend my senior year at the European School of Economics in London.”

_It’s a small world._

“That must please your father.”

The smile abruptly vanished. He put on his sunglasses.

“Right. Well then, see you tomorrow,” he said before resuming his route.

_For Pete’s sake, Ezra, next time just buy your donut and shut up. You see enough students who have problems with their parents the rest of the year._


	3. 7 July 2016 (day 3)

The next day, Anthony found Ezra rather distant. The latter paid for his donut (apple), politely but curtly responded to his attempts at conversation, then sat down and promptly picked up a book, which he opened to two-thirds through.

 

The young man would not be defeated. He couldn’t stand being snubbed like that.

“Are you reading two books at the same time?” he asked. The older man could not escape a direct question. Ezra seemed caught off-balance.

“Excuse me?”

“When I got here, you were reading this other book which you put at your feet.”

A guy who spent his afternoon buried in books shouldn’t be able to resist talking about them.

“Well, that one is poetry, meant to be savored. One does not read the entire collection…how do you say it…” Ezra snapped his finger irritably, “…at once. So I alternate.”

 _Oh my God, he also reads poetry. At the beach._ Anthony read the title of the collection upside down. It was ‘Les Fleurs du mal’ (The Flowers of Evil).

“Classics, eh?”

“Not only,” said Ezra tersely as he pointed to his other book, ‘La porte des Enfers’ (The Gate of Hell) by Laurent Gaudé. Anthony frowned.

“I don’t know that one. Is it good?”

“Very much so. Wonderful writing. I thought he was well-known in France.”

“Could be. Novels aren’t really my thing. I only read books on economics.”

Ezra looked desolate, as if Anthony had just announced he had an incurable disease. An uncomfortable moment passed.

 

The young salesman picked up the conversation. “Is it very difficult to read in French?”

“It’s not too bad. When I travel, I like to read the authors of the country to which I go, in the native language. It contributes to the feeling of immersion.”

“Gosh…how many languages can you read?”

“A few,” Ezra replied simply.

_Betcha he’s a teacher._

“And what do you do for a living? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Anthony could sense Ezra’s slight hesitation.

“I teach English literature.”

_Bingo._

“High school?”

“No, university,” corrected Ezra with a bit of hesitation.

Impressed, Anthony asked where.

“King’s College.”

“In London?”

Ezra nodded.

_It’s a small world._

“You seem reluctant to talk about it,” the young man said.

“Let’s just say that, when talking to a student, it’s not a good idea to admit that one is a teacher. We’re considered the enemy. Afterward, a bit of reluctance seems to sets in – as if I’m going to grade everything that they say. It often kills the spontaneity of the conversation. Or they stop talking altogether.”

_Ah, so it would bother him if we stopped talking?_

“A little bit like when you tell someone who loves books that you don’t like to read?”

Ezra smiled.

“Tell you what. I’ll forget that you don’t like literature and you forget that I’m a boring teacher, okay?”

_Boring? Not really._

“ _Ça roule_ ,” the young man responded. Seeing the incomprehension in the eyes of the other man (how in hell was it even possible to have eyes so blue?), he rephrased, “Okay.”

And with feigned solemnity he held out his hand to seal the deal. Tongue-in-cheek, Ezra ceremoniously took it. Anthony could not help but notice that he had really beautiful hands.


	4. 8 July 2016 (day 4)

Like on previous days, Ezra had risen early, headed toward the shore and gone swimming before the sun had gotten too hot. He liked the peacefulness of the almost-empty beach, the invigorating texture of the damp sand under his toes, the surge of the waves without the shouts of children to disturb the soothing sound.

Then, he’d toured a little bit more of the region, taking advantage of an obliging neighbor who’d dropped him off and returned later after running a few errands. There was little public transport in this small resort town. He should have rented a car, but he hated driving. And he was too absent-minded to trust himself in a country where they drove on the right.

He returned in the middle of the afternoon and went down to the beach with his books, now alternating Rimbaud – ‘Une saison en enfer’ (A Season in Hell) and Bernanos – ‘Sous le soleil de Satan’ (Under the Sun of Satan). He had bought an apple donut (“Sorry, I’d gotten some extra chocolate this morning, but these kids are real vultures”).

He had dined at a restaurant, alone with his book. It was depressing to cook for himself.

 

Now, since four days were enough to set a routine, he returned to his lodging by the road alongside the almost-deserted beach. The pinkish light of sunset slanted across the sand, shading the slight contours, softening edges and colors.

His eyes traveled the surf to catch sight of Anthony coming out of the water. Ezra hesitated to wave at him, as the young man did not appear to have seen him. Without toweling off, he ran a hand through his wet hair and turned to face the sea. He stretched, crossed his hands behind his neck and remained motionless, seemingly transfixed in contemplation of the waves.

Ezra felt a twinge of desire at the sight of this slender body, whose short swim trunks didn’t hide very much. He never would have dared to wear such fitted trunks. Even less so now. _I’ve really let myself go since Matthew left._

Two years ago, by mutual agreement they had ended a relationship that was no longer of benefit to either of them. During its thirteen years they both had changed, and not in the same direction.

Since then, he hadn’t shared his life with anyone. Had he missed opportunities he hadn’t seen because he hadn’t cared? Thirteen years was a lot to be reduced to nothing in just a few days. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to invest that much of himself in a relationship again.

_And I’ll be forty in three months._

 

He left his reverie with difficulty and realized he was still staring at Anthony. The young man had a beautiful back. Long and supple, with modestly-defined muscles, from just-wide-enough shoulders to narrow hips. _An_ appealing _back_ , Ezra thought, not knowing where this odd choice of adjective had come from. It was by far his favorite part of a man’s body.

Suddenly, he was ashamed of his voyeurism. Ashamed of the desire a kid fifteen years younger than him had awakened. He retreated down the path as one flees a temptation to which he shouldn’t yield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I have only the beach at dusk to offer. Not the pretty boy in the swim trunks. Luna will be the one most disappointed. 
> 
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147740995387/


	5. 9 July 2016 (day 5)

Five minute break and time for a bit of cold water. Anthony dropped the cart, shook out his arms to relax, and drank a long refreshing gulp.

He took the opportunity to check his phone, which he pulled from the back pocket of his shorts. The little message light was flashing. He erased it without opening it when he realized it was from Arthur.

 _Fuck, when is he going to let me go?_ They’d slept together twice, and that was enough for him to imagine God knows what. The guy’d been sending texts and voice messages now for two weeks, at all hours of the day or night. At first, Anthony had tried to make it clear he wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship, but the other man didn’t seem to want to let up.

_If I just ignore him, maybe he’ll go away. It’s my fault; I never should have given him my number._ _I’m usually better at spotting the clingy ones._

At least both times they’d fucked they had been at Arthur’s, so the guy didn’t know in which university building Anthony’s studio apartment was. Wise precaution. Otherwise, he’d probably be outside lurking.

There wasn’t really a point in getting involved when in less than two months, he’d be gone for a year. Anthony was sufficiently honest with himself to acknowledge that was a convenient excuse and failed to explain why none of his relationships lasted more than a couple weeks.

Come to think of it: what _was_ the point of getting involved? Ideally, you’d just hook up for one or two nights, then _ciao_. No expectations, no time to get bored. No disappointment for anyone. Unless you’ve really misjudged someone. He dropped Arthur from his thoughts (easiest thing in the world), and set off again.

 

“Hey, Tony! Can I have a chocolate donut?”

“Sorry, Adam, they’re all gone,” said the vendor, deliberating averting his eyes from the one he’d carefully wrapped in a napkin and hidden. “How about raspberry?”

“Eewwww,” said the boy, grabbing the donut anyway and inspecting it perfunctorily before sinking his teeth in.

 

At 17h10, the end of the beach was in sight. But not Ezra. Anthony made a wide turn and headed back in the other direction. He stopped for a moment for another drink, his hand shading his brow as he looked down the path that connected the sand to the nearest cottages.

A bawling child was demanding a donut from his mother who was trying to explain that she hadn’t brought any money. Anthony walked over and handed the last chocolate donut to the screaming brat.

“But I don’t…” started the woman.

“The first one is free,” said the young man.

Killing two birds with one stone: the kid would stop torturing his eardrums, and the mother would feel obliged to buy donuts for the rest of their holiday.

He resumed pushing his cart and wondered what had happened to Ezra. If he wasn’t here, maybe he’d left already. Anthony hadn’t thought to ask him how long he was staying.

_After all, why should I care?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did have a small Adam next to me on the beach! That’s how he became part of this story.


	6. 10 July 2016 (day 6)

“Good afternoon, Anthony. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, Ezra, how about you? I’m going to tell you up front I still don’t have chocolate donuts. I had one yesterday, but you weren’t here.”

It sounded a bit like a reproach.

“I’m sorry I missed out. I think I’ll have to slow down on the donuts, anyway.”

“Don’t joke about it. I’m paid on commission.”

“Well, then I’ll buy an iced tea, at least.”

 

Ezra started to explain, wondering why he needed to justify his absence. “Yesterday I went to Valmagne Abbey.”

“Oh yes, it’s very pretty,” said Anthony in a neutral tone.

“It’s unusual, this church…converted?” He waited for confirmation of his word choice before continuing. “…converted into a winery. And the fountain, in particular, was spectacular. I have always enjoyed the sense of spirituality one finds in the cloisters.”

“Are you a believer?” the young man asked before quickly adding, “I’m sorry, that’s a very personal question.”

Ezra swept away his concern with a gesture.

“I like to think that there’s Somebody up there, no matter what we call Him, who has a plan for each of us.”

“A plan?”

A smirk crossed Anthony’s face.

 

Ezra shrugged. The young man seemed angry at him for some unknown reason. Had he seen Ezra watching him the other day? He was _almost_ certain he hadn’t.

 

“Why not?” Ezra gently countered.

“I prefer to think I’m master of my own destiny. It’s too easy to think that there’s a god who’ll take care of things for us.”

The objection offended Ezra, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

“What else could I expect but this down-to-earth attitude from a marketing student who, by definition, has sold his soul to capitalism and making money?”

He was answered with this rather sly comeback.

“At least I know that in return, they’ll take care of my financial future.”

“Money above all else! I’ve always said that bankers, stock traders, and advertisers are the spawn of Satan.”

Anthony seemed to take a cunning pleasure in devising his next response.

“You can’t help build a country’s economy by burying your nose in a book.”

“Pushing people to consume more and more doesn’t make them happy,” retorted Ezra tartly.

“It’s not my job to make people happy.”

The tone was supposed to be light, but it rang dreadfully false.

 

The ensuing silence was awkward.

Ezra finally broke it. “Sorry. Everyone’s allowed to believe what they want. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, it was my fault. Anyway, the beach isn’t the place for philosophical discourse. Even if sunbathing and swimming don’t seem to be your thing,” said Anthony, without animosity or derision, nodding toward Ezra’s clothing and beach umbrella.

“I go swimming early in the morning. And I _do_ like the sun. It’s the sun that doesn’t like me. As the stereotypical Englishman, I have fair skin. And when you travel alone, you need to find someone to put suntan lotion on your back,” Ezra bantered, before realizing what he’d just said.

_My God! That sounded like I was hitting on him! It was like a line right out of a bad TV sitcom! What is he going to think of me?_

 

If Anthony _was_ thinking about him, he didn’t show it.

“That’s why you travel with your books.”

“Oh, I’ve always done it, even when I was…um…was not traveling alone. I’m afraid I’ve never been very good company at the beach.”

“If you read that many novels, maybe you want to write them too, eh?”

The question surprised Ezra.

_Why would he ask that?_

“Well, I wouldn’t be truthful if I said it had never crossed my mind.”

“But?”

“But…well…there’s other things I should be doing.”

 

What book lover hasn’t wondered if one day they might be able to write one? Perhaps, paradoxically, teaching literature was the worst possible job for doing so. Ezra picked apart masterpieces all day long. _Would you be able to write something so interesting and meaningful?_ he’d often wondered. _No. Could you write with the same amount of skill? Probably not._

 

“That’s too bad,” Anthony said to make polite conversation. “Well, I’ve got to get going. Capitalism doesn’t sell itself.”

Ezra could have sworn that Anthony winked at him from behind his sunglasses before leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where Ezra was yesterday…
> 
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147837500082/


	7. 11 July 2016 (day 7)

At the beach, the conversation centered around the Euro football championship the day before. France had been on the brink of winning the title and each barstool analyst had an opinion about which strategy could have won it all.

Anthony hadn’t been rooting for a French championship – his team was Manchester City – but, like almost everyone else, he had reasons for following the national team’s run. He’d certainly noticed the advantage to him that the Blues had gotten so far in the competition: the venues that were broadcasting each successive game on giant screens were packed with customers and looking for extra help. The tips and cash wages had made it worth his while to work two jobs.

He wanted to put aside as much money as possible. Even with a scholarship, a year of study in London was going to be expensive. But he really needed to get out of here. Besides looking real good on his CV, if he were truly optimistic about it, it might finally shut his father’s trap. At least for a little bit.

 

Ezra kept his resolution about the donuts and settled for an iced tea.

“How long are you staying?” the young salesman asked nonchalantly.

“Until the 16th.” Ezra picked up his book (‘Le diable au corps’ (Devil in the Flesh) by Raymond Radiguet, noted Anthony, who was beginning to feel these titles had a strangely similar theme). “Oh! Anthony…”

“Mmmmh?”

“I’d like to go to Montpellier tomorrow and I wondered, since you go to school there, if you have any recommendations for me. Something that’s not listed in the guides, perhaps a nice restaurant…?”

“Uh…I don’t go out to restaurants much, but there is a very nice wine bar that also has good food. ‘The Angels’ Share,’ near Comedy Square.”

“Thank you for the recommendation,” said Ezra, who was just getting ready to sit down.

“If you want, it’s my day off tomorrow. I could show you around…”

_What’s wrong with you? You only got four hours of sleep last night and you were going to use tomorrow to recover._

 

The invitation seemed to surprise Ezra.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother.”

“It’s just…I was thinking of going to the Fabre Museum. The special exhibit they have on Frédéric Bazille looks very interesting.”

“And you’re afraid I’ll be bored because I’m some punk kid?”

“No, no!” Ezra quickly responded.

“Anyway, I’ll tell you, that show is well worth the visit,” Anthony casually added.

“Have you already seen it?” Ezra was surprised.

“Last week.”

The young man enjoyed Ezra’s reaction. It was amusing to toy with him. He laid it on by pretending to be indignant.

“What? Just because I’m young, and literature isn’t my cup of tea, you automatically think I have no appreciation of culture, is that it?”

“No! I would never say that! But it’s even the more reason why I shouldn’t make you go...”

“There’s a certain picture that I’d like to see again. And you wouldn’t dare deprive me of the pleasure of showing off to a university professor everything I learned last week. But…it was only a suggestion. Far be from me to force you to enjoy my company.” Anthony was now sure of his victory.

“In that case, I think it will be a pleasure,” Ezra agreed, with a smile that brought out his dimples, made his eyes twinkle, and instantly made one forget how ordinary he looked.

“I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning, near the lifeguard stand.”

That would give him a little bit of time to sleep. 

 

“Oh…well of course, I’ll pay you the going rate for guides.”

Ezra seemed nervous about whether Anthony would be more upset if he’d made the offer or not.

The latter reflected for a moment and nodded.

“That’ll work.”

There. He was doing it for the money. He’d take every euro he could get. It had nothing to do with that damned smile.


	8. 12 July 2016 (day 8)

“A motorcycle? You have a motorcycle?”

In his surprise, Ezra had forgotten to use the formal French form of ‘you.’ With his helmet under his arm, Anthony grinned.

“Yes, that’s good – we shouldn’t be so proper today. And yes, this is my motorcycle. Is that a problem?”

“Well…when you said you were going to pick me up, I just assumed you had a car.”

“God knows I’d certainly like to have a car, but that isn’t the case. I bought this vintage bike for a song and have spent hours refurbishing it. There isn’t another one like it,” Anthony said lovingly as he patted the Triumph. He handed the passenger helmet to Ezra.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle!”

“There’s a first time for everything. Relax! I’ll be gentle.”

Anthony gave Ezra some tips on how to position himself for cornering, then revved the bike. “C’mon, get on and hang on!”

 

Ezra was trapped. If he refused, he’d seem like a wimp. He took a deep breath to regain his composure, then bravely put on the helmet and mounted the passenger seat behind Anthony.

_Hang on? Hang on to what?_

Seeing no other alternative, he put his arms around the young man’s waist. The black motorcycle lurched forward, leaving him no time to ponder any double meaning behind the gesture.

 

Ezra had no idea if Anthony was being ‘gentle.’ Any speed would have seemed excessive. He was unfamiliar with the movements of the bike, simply praying to ‘Someone up there’ that it wasn’t in the Ineffable Plan for him to die today.

It only took fifteen minutes to get to Montpellier, and Anthony now deftly weaved the bike through traffic, squeezing between gaps which would have barely accepted even the best credit card. Ezra shut his eyes and muttered, “You’ll get us killed!”

But against all odds, they arrived safely in one piece.  Well, technically – two.

“So, were you terrified?” Anthony teased as they dismounted.

“No way! I thought it was fun,” Ezra responded, trying to suppress the quiver in his voice. And in his knees.

 

Since dark clouds were threatening, they decided to hit the museum first. The exhibit put the works of Bazille in the context of the birth of Impressionism, displayed alongside paintings from Corot, Monet, and others. They spent a long time gazing at ‘Autoportrait à la palette’ (Self-portrait with Palette).

Ezra murmured, “What presence! It’s extraordinary!”

He turned toward Anthony and realized that he was contemplating the painting. Ezra recognized, “This is the one you wanted to see again?”

“Yes.”

“Any reason in particular?”

“Exactly what you said. And because in this painting, that expression that Bazille has, it’s like proving something to his father. ‘You had your heart set on me becoming a doctor, but I was right not to follow that path because I became a damned fine painter.’ And, considering he died at the age of twenty-eight, it’s a good thing he didn’t live his life the way his father wanted.”

As Anthony had spoken, his eyes had not left the portrait. Ezra gazed thoughtfully at his profile. Then, he too, resumed looking at the painting.

Anthony’s hand on his arm broke his focus.

“Shall we go see the next one?”

Ezra followed, thrown off-balance by the brief contact.

 

As they reached the last of Bazille’s paintings, Ezra asked, “Is the permanent collection also this interesting?”

“Not really. But there are a few works that are worth your time. A Nicolas de Stael, among others. We can go see and you can decide for yourself.”

Anthony was right. They passed quickly through the galleries, stopping to discuss only a few noteworthy pieces. However, the young man lingered for a moment in front of Delorme’s ‘Eve tentée par le serpent’ (Eve tempted by the Serpent).

“You like this painting?” inquired Ezra.

“Not particularly. There’s just something about it that makes me stop and look at it every time I come here.”

In turn, Ezra was transfixed by a work of Cabanel titled ‘L'ange déchu’ (The Fallen Angel).

“What a disturbing piece…” he said.

Anthony agreed.

 

There was yet another gallery to go through.

“It’s contemporary conceptual art,” warned Anthony disdainfully. “It’s here I’m going to start acting like a little kid and whine that I want to eat. I’m starving.”

Ezra wholeheartedly agreed.

 

Outside, the sun was shining again. On the esplanade the servers were busy wiping down the chairs wet from rain and setting the tables. The pair chatted while enjoying lunch: Ezra a salad, Anthony an enormous burger with fries.

 

After the meal, Anthony played tour guide in the city. They traveled through time – from the neo-classical styling of the newer Antigone neighborhood to the winding streets of the medieval district.

There, something peculiar caught Ezra’s attention: half of a bicycle was protruding from the wall of a house several meters above the ground.

“What is…?”

“It’s a bit of fun. Or perhaps art. Or maybe both. The other half of the bike is in another wall, over here. Come look.”

Ezra stared at it, surprised and amused. He murmured, “Good luck trying to fix that one!”

“What were you were saying?”

“Nothing very important.”

 

Despite the morning storm, the heat was overwhelming.

“Why don’t we take a break? Let’s go somewhere that’s not so hot,” suggested Ezra.

“I know the perfect place,” responded Anthony, who took him to the botanical gardens.

Hackberries, cypress, agaves, lotus, water lilies…the abundance and variety was rich in both sight and scent. They wandered through the garden and settled down on a long bench of shaded stone, facing a large planting of bamboo. They pulled out the cold beverages they’d packed in a cooler.

 

“This is so peaceful! It’s like paradise!” exclaimed Ezra.

“Yes. I spend a lot of time here during the school year. When I’m not in classes, I mean. I study, I take pictures…”

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yep. And I work here too. This garden is part of the university. They hire a few students to help with maintenance during the school year. It’s been my main job for the past four years.”

“I never would have guessed you to be a gardener. You’re full of surprises.”

“I’d like to think I’m pretty good at it, too. It so happens that it’s the reason I was allowed to stay in my student housing over the summer. The head of housing likes to walk here, and I was able to talk him into letting me stay until the end of August, instead of early July. It saved me from having to go back to living with my parents.”

“You were able to talk him into it?”

“Of course! In life, everything is negotiated. That’s how things get done!”

Ezra suddenly realized, in his world, negotiating was something that other people did with him.

 

They sat comfortably in silence for a while, and Ezra was amazed at how contented he felt.

Eventually, Anthony lay down on the bench, knees bent and hands folded behind his head. His eyes were closed but, from the way he was breathing, one could tell he wasn’t asleep.

Ezra wondered how long it had been since he’d spent time at a park doing absolutely nothing – no phone calls, without a book to read or papers to grade. He leaned back against the brick wall behind him, and the warmth of the bricks only heightened the peaceful feeling.

He enjoyed the incessant drone of cicadas, the play of light through the bamboo, and the way Anthony’s head was resting only a few centimeters from his thigh.

 

The latter sat up as evening made its appearance.

“You wanna eat here in town before we leave?” he asked.

“Sure. How about that wine bar you mentioned?”

“Nah, you know what I really want? A gigantic ice cream sundae, with lots of whipped cream!”

“For dinner?” Ezra exclaimed.

“Why, is there a law against it?”

“In Her Majesty’s kingdom, absolutely. But apparently not in this land of barbarians,” Ezra retorted with a prim tone that was belied by his smile.

“Ha! Now you’re talking!” 

 

As they placed their spoons into the empty bowls, Anthony offered to take Ezra back to the beach.

“But…don’t you live here? I can’t make you go back and forth. I can just as easily call a taxi.”

“It’s no problem. I like riding.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Would you like to go a little faster this time?”

“I think I might like that, yes.” And he meant it.

 

Anthony dropped Ezra off in front of the cottage.

“Thank you.”

The young man seemed to be waiting for something.

“Oh…I forgot,” said Ezra as he took his wallet out of his pocket.

“No, never mind. I had a really good time.”

“I did too.”

_What is he waiting for?_

A sudden thought struck him.

 _Does he want me to invite him in for a nightcap?_

_No, that’s ridiculous. And even if – as improbable as it seems – we had a one-night stand, I haven’t handled that very well in the past._  

He’d had three – he remembered them perfectly – when he’d been a student. And one right after Matthew. To prove a point. It had mostly been an opportunity to remind himself how much he didn’t like it. The pressure to have to demonstrate, in a single sexual encounter, that one was able to _perform…_ And he always became involved too quickly. Matthew had occasionally reproached him gently, “You’re a hopeless romantic.” Ezra could not disagree.

 

He cleared his throat.

“Good. Well…thanks again. I guess I’ll see you at the beach tomorrow.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard the motorcycle take off with a roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art and the scenery.
> 
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147959537252/  
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147959548697/  
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147959567937/


	9. 13 July 2016 (day 9)

At 17h, Anthony hesitated before heading to the end of the beach and turning around. He didn’t want to see Ezra. He felt humiliated.

_You might as well face it, you got shot down. By someone who, normally, you_ never _would have asked to sleep with you._ _That’s really, really lame._

Yet, he’d felt some really good vibes yesterday. He thought he’d been sending clear signals all day. Signals? Since when did he have to send signals? He was usually much more direct. It avoided wasting time.

The truth was he couldn’t imagine doing it with Ezra. Anthony had to admit the man was impressive. _Shit, you don’t go around asking a university professor if he want to get laid!_ He imagined his shocked expression and his posh BBC accent: “Now really, my dear, surely you jest!”

Eventually, he resolutely continued his route. He refused to let anyone else influence his actions. So what if Ezra wasn’t interested? His loss.

_Anyway, what is it about this guy? Well, he’s… Eh, just stop it. What good will it do to make a list? He’s. Not. Interested. Get that through your head and move on._  

 

Ezra waved him down as soon as he saw him. Anthony sighed. _Whatever. You’ve already shot me down, why not kick me as well?_ Behind his sunglasses, he assumed an indifferent attitude.

“I just got back. You’ll never guess what I did today! I rented a car! And we both made it back in one piece!”

Ezra appeared particularly proud of this accomplishment.

“First, I went to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. It’s so beautiful! The Devil’s Bridge is so…” He stopped to find the right word, “…picturesque! Then I visited Pézenas. I couldn’t go to the town where Molière made his debut without purchasing an anthology of his plays, and I also came across a bookstore that had a tea room. Do you know it?”

Full of enthusiasm, Ezra seemed oblivious that he hadn’t gotten a response.

“I felt right at home! It had some very nice editions of classics and…”

He stopped to pull a book from his bag and, somewhat embarrassed, handed it to Anthony. _The Three Musketeers._

“…I thought of you. This was my favorite book when I was a child. It was in English, of course, at that time. But it’s one of the works that gave me a love for reading. So I figured that…well…to thank you for yesterday…”

_What the hell?_

Receiving gifts always made Anthony ill at ease and gave him the unpleasant feeling of being indebted. He had an awkward thought of feeling like a gigolo. _Except for one small detail; he doesn’t want to sleep with me!_ _So why a gift? A novel, nonetheless!_

It was something his father would have done.

_I know you don’t like it, Anthony, but make me happy: change._ _Be who I want you to be._

 

The young man almost walked away without a word. Only his sense of civility prevented him. He took the book Ezra held out, dumped in in the cart without further review, and gave perfunctory thanks. Ezra looked disconcerted.

“I have to work. Later,” Anthony said, giving his cart an especially forceful shove.

 

After work, he was reluctant to return to Montpellier. He certainly didn’t want to spend another night alone in his room stewing in his frustration.

The bar near the campground was packed. Anthony downed a rum-and-coke, then immediately asked for another while scanning the room for someone to his liking. The alcohol burned his empty stomach. He spotted a young blond with wide shoulders and an attractive smile who was drinking with friends. Anthony ordered two beers, approached the blond with a casual greeting, and handed him one of the two glasses. The other man accepted, showing off his perfect teeth, and they took a small table away from the group.

The guy’s name was Samuel. He was a student from Belgium. As Anthony feigned interest in his studies, his attention was drawn over the student’s shoulder. Ezra was seated alone at a table, sipping white wine, but occasionally exchanging a few words with a woman at the adjacent table. He caught Anthony’s eye and quickly turned his head away when he realized the young man had been staring at him.

Anthony attempted to return his focus to his partner and the topic of biology. But in the middle of a sentence, he rose without a word, made a detour through the bar to pick up another beer, and sat in the chair across from Ezra, while a shocked Samuel looked on.

 

“So, your nose is finally out of the books?” Anthony said, taking a deep gulp.

“I think the boy you were talking to is waiting for you,” responded Ezra evenly.

“So let him wait.”

Ezra again looked perplexed.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Why? What does it matter to you?” Anthony drained the beer. “Do you think you’re my father?”

_Oh, well done, Anthony! It’d be impossible to sound more childish._

Ezra asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what? About my father? Certainly not!” said the young man emphatically. Then he added, a little less harshly, “There’s nothing to talk about. He’s an asshole.”

“Would you like some fresh air, at least? You don’t look very well,” offered Ezra.

Anthony could indeed feel a bad headache coming on. It was extremely loud in the bar. And he knew the rum wasn’t agreeing with him. He acquiesced.

 

They headed out and naturally took the turn toward the beach. As they walked toward the water’s edge, the sea air seemed to revive Anthony. He sat down on the sand, followed by Ezra.

The latter spoke after a long silence.

“Look… I’m sorry if I did or said something to hurt you.”

Anthony shook his head. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Yet, he opened his mouth, silently cursing the rum.

“You’re exactly like him. I’m never good enough. And I’m not who you want me to be.”

He sensed that Ezra wanted to say something, but he let the rest of his words tumble out. The fervency with which he spoke surprised himself.

“My father jumped for joy when he found out my mother was expecting a boy. When he realized I wasn’t quite going to meet his expectations, he had a hard time handling it. It hasn’t gotten any better with time.”

Ezra listened intently, his head slightly inclined.

“In high school, I messed up. I started hanging around with troublemakers. I started cutting classes. I got suspended. In hindsight, I think I wanted to give him real reasons to be mad at me. He threw me out of the house several times.”

“And where was your mother in all this?” asked Ezra softly.

“She made him take me back, every time. One day, she got fed up with always being in the middle. She told us she couldn’t live like that anymore; that if we weren’t going to make an effort, she was going to leave.”

Ezra’s attentive gaze encouraged him to continue.

“I’ve made the effort, Ezra! I went back to school. I got my diploma, only two years late. I get good grades. I work to pay for my tuition and board. I don’t owe him anything.” Anthony shrugged peevishly. “I do all that! But it’s still not enough for him. It’ll never be enough. Because my father is waiting for someone who I will never be.”

 

He stopped to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

_It’s a good thing you already knew you had no chance. Because after this little adolescent episode, now he knows you’re a basket case. Why’d you have to go ahead and say all that?_

_Because he’s a good listener. He’s the kind of teacher who has students lined up outside his office all year waiting to tell him their problems._

At least, Anthony had been able to keep his voice from trembling. He was able to retain that modicum of dignity.

 

Ezra seemed to consider his words carefully before speaking.

“You shouldn’t have to change. Not for anyone. You are…you’re fine the way you are. Maybe your father can’t see that right now. I think that…you should be free to live your life the way you want, but don’t burn your bridges. You’re his son. One day he might realize that’s the only thing that matters.”

“I doubt it. But you never know. It could happen,” conceded Anthony.

He stood up and decided he’d better go home after all.

“Ezra…?”

His empathetic listener raised his eyes.

“…Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More scenery:
> 
> http://sous-le-saule.tumblr.com/post/147996098622/


	10. 14 July 2016 (day 10)

“I’m sorry that I bothered you with my problems,” Anthony said, embarrassed, as he handed Ezra a cup of iced tea.

“It’s no bother, please. I’ll be here if you still need to talk.”

How many times had Ezra spoken those words since he’d become a teacher? The more he conversed with some of his students, the more he realized how fortunate he’d been to have grown up in a close and loving family. His parents were great. They had always supported him, both in his studies and in his love life. He remembered how happy they’d been when he’d introduced them to Matthew.

He looked at Anthony. _Yes. I was lucky._

The young man turned away and grimaced.

“That’s nice, but I’ll be fine. I’m not a kid. Even if that wasn’t apparent yesterday. Sorry I dumped on you.”

He got ready to leave, turning to heft his cart. Ezra stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Everyone needs to vent at some point. If you think I’m going to judge you for that – don’t.”

Anthony nodded gratefully and set off on his route.

 

After a few meters, he hesitated, then stopped. He turned around and retraced his steps, leaving the cart in the middle of the beach. He nervously ran a hand through his hair as he stood before Ezra.

“I was wondering…well…for the national holiday, there are musicians playing everywhere tonight. I was planning to go see a group of friends playing a show on a small outdoor stage in Montpellier. Would you…do you want to come with me?”

Surprised, Ezra agreed; then asked, “What kind of music?”

“Rock, basically.”

Ezra stifled his initial reaction.

“Are we going to go as soon as you’re done? On your motorcycle?”

Anthony nodded. “Just give me time to take a shower and then I’m yours.”

Ezra fortuitously remembered this was also a common idiom in French. He sometimes found Anthony’s method of expression a little difficult to follow.

“Splendid! I’ll see you later.”

 

They meandered through the streets, still radiating warmth from the heat of the day despite the lengthening shadows of dusk. They paused at an outdoor restaurant to munch on tapas and enjoy a glass of wine, then proceeded to the venue.

 

After the first few opening numbers, Ezra commented, leaning closely into Anthony’s ear to be heard above the music, “They’re not too bad, actually. Did they write these songs?”

The young man stared at him, restrained mirth causing his eyes to sparkle.

“Ha ha, no. These are covers. Don’t you know U2 and the Police?”

Ezra shook his head. “Is this the kind of music you usually listen to?”

Anthony nodded and listed a few bands: Muse, the Killers, Placebo…they meant nothing to Ezra.

“Okay. How about older ones? You must know Led Zeppelin, of course. No? The Rolling Stones? The Velvet Underground?”

Ezra’s confusion increased with each name.

“How about Queen?” asked Anthony, as if it were his last hope.

Ezra confessed that ‘maybe’ he’d heard of them.

“I usually listen to classical music,” he offered as an excuse.

“Oh my God!” said Anthony. “You’re beyond redemption.”

 

About ten minutes into the set, spectators began to dance, facing toward the stage. Ezra felt uncomfortably out of his element. But as long as dancing consisted mainly of rocking back and forth to the beat, he thought that he could adequately fake it. Anthony would occasionally glance toward him with what looked like amusement on his face.

 

By the tenth song, Anthony grabbed his hand and dragged him into the middle of the dancing crowd, crazy and clumsy, unconcerned about jostling the other participants. Ezra wanted to protest, but Anthony was laughing and seemed to be having fun. He remembered that a little embarrassment never hurt anyone and allowed Anthony to lead the dance.

Taking advantage of the space that had opened up around them, the young man took a large step backwards without releasing the hand of his partner, their outstretched arms marking the distance between them. Then he pulled hard on Ezra’s hand, yanking him back to him. Suddenly, their faces were within few centimeters of each other. Anthony’s laughter faltered. His eyes darkened. He half-closed his lids, slightly parted his lips and, leaning forward, kissed Ezra. Hesitantly at first, but then with increasing fervor.

In front of everyone.

Ezra usually avoided public displays of affection. You never knew how people would react.

But Anthony deepened the kiss, slipping one hand around Ezra’s back and the other into his hair, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking anymore. He no longer noticed the pulsating crowd around them. He no longer noticed the incessant beat of the music.

 

Ezra guessed at more than heard the murmured invitation, “Let’s get out of here.” Anthony snaked through the crowd, pulling him along. The volume of the music diminished as they moved away from the square, mixing with the low bass emanating from another location.

Ezra stopped, forcing Anthony, who was still holding his hand, to do the same.

“Hold on a second.”

To the young man’s unspoken query he responded, “I’m not sure…I mean…I shouldn’t. Damn it, I have students your age!”

“And? I’m not one of your students. So you can leave your ethics out of this. Unless that’s just another way of telling me you’re not interested.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Of course it is,” Anthony replied perceptively. “Ezra, don’t you ever do what you want, instead of what you should?”

The question caught him off guard. He remained silent for a few seconds.

“So?” Anthony stared at him intently, his dark eyes glowing with some hidden fire, his hair disheveled from the dancing, his black shirt and jeans emphasizing his slender silhouette.

“So, I want to,” whispered Ezra.

As fireworks lit the sky, he allowed himself to be led from neighborhood to district, through varying genres of music, to the university residence where Anthony lived. He’d never let go of Ezra’s hand, as if he were afraid Ezra might change his mind.

 

The door to the studio apartment abruptly shut behind them, and Ezra found Anthony pressed against him before he’d even begun to process what was going to happen. Anthony kissed him hungrily. His lips descended down his neck as he struggled to unbutton Ezra’s shirt. Ezra’s hips, of their own volition, bucked into Anthony, who let out a strangled gasp and immediately stopped fighting with the third button to kneel before Ezra, undoing his belt buckle. Leaning hard against the door, Ezra already knew he wasn’t going to last long.

 

It wasn’t even that long.

Mortified, he stammered, “I’m sorry…it’s been a long time…” It only made him feel more pathetic.

But Anthony seemed to have taken it as a compliment and stood up looking rather smug. He quickly finished undressing Ezra. The latter searched him closely for any signs of judgment and was relieved to find none.

The young man dragged him toward his single bed while undressing in turn, tossing his clothes behind him.

Ezra tentatively placed his hands on Anthony’s body with the reverence due the blessing of a second chance.

Anthony must have showered in haste because his skin still held the scent of sunscreen. It was intoxicating. Ezra reproached himself for his groping caresses, clumsy in comparison to his partner’s practiced moves. It had been so simple with Matthew. He’d known exactly what he liked. This was unknown territory.

Anthony grunted against his shoulder. “Could you please stop thinking for just five minutes?”

He sat up and looked into Ezra’s questioning eyes. More softly, he said, “Relax. There’s no reason to be nervous.”

He kissed Ezra, more deliberately this time. Ezra sensed Anthony was trying to restrain himself, lessening the fervor of his movements and caresses. The young man began to guide him, whispering suggestions from time to time.

_He’s gotten tired of my hesitation._

But Ezra could detect only sincerity and desire in his voice. And oh! hearing those words in French intermixed with gasps and sighs was extremely arousing. He was ready for another round faster than he expected.

Anthony rummaged through the drawer of the night table, pulled out a condom and a bottle of lubricant, and glanced at Ezra who nodded his assent.

He decided to let himself be swept up in the moment. Thoughts yielded to sensations. There was no room for fear. No room for doubts. Pleasure surmounted everything.

 

He came with a gasp and, judging from the same ensuing from his lover, who soon followed suit, he figured he hadn’t done too badly after all.

They looked into each other’s eyes and, flush with endorphins, burst into laughter which ended in a kiss. Anthony grinned, got up, and disappeared for a moment into the tiny bathroom. When Ezra returned in succession, they settled into the narrow bed as comfortably as they could. It reminded Ezra of his old dorm room when, in violation of the student code, his boyfriend at that time had stayed the night.

Ezra would have liked his brain to shut off for the night, but he knew himself too well to resist the analysis of every angle and probability.

“Why did you bring me here?” he couldn’t refrain from asking.

Anthony teased, “I thought that was apparent.”

“No, I mean…why me?”

The young man yawned.

“You ask too many questions.”

Silence.

“You could have easily found someone younger.” _And certainly more attractive._

Anthony didn’t answer. At the end of a long silence he burst out angrily, “Ezra, I’m warning you; if you’re thinking about that cliché of the guy who fucks older men because he has daddy issues, I’m kicking you out.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that at all!” lied Ezra.

“Good. Because if you really want to know, this is the first time it’s happened.”

“So what made tonight different?”

Anthony sighed.

“I don’t really know.” He let another moment pass. “You. You’re different. And…and I have a weakness for men with beautiful hands,” he finished with a slight smile.

Ezra got the distinct feeling it wasn’t what he’d originally intended to say.

“Can we go to sleep now? I’m beat,” Anthony said, closing his eyes.

Two seconds later, he was asleep.

 

Ezra envied people who could fall asleep at the flip of a switch. He listened to Anthony breathe for almost an hour before his thoughts settled enough for him to follow suit.


	11. 15 July 2016 (day 11)

“Dammit, I forgot to set my alarm! If I show up late, I’ll be fired!”

Anthony jumped out of bed and tossed on some clothes. He called out to Ezra, whom he’d caught in the middle of a yawn.

“If you want me to take you back to the beach, you’ll have to hurry! Or you can stay here and I’ll leave you my keys.”

Ezra covered his mouth this time. He nodded. “I’ll use the opportunity to see more of the city. I’ll take a taxi back. Will you stop by my place after work?”

“Okay!” Anthony called as he ran out the door.

 

On the beach he was so preoccupied with his thoughts he forgot to be genial and outgoing toward the customers. The question Ezra had posed last night kept running around in his head. _Why him?_

He wasn’t in especially good shape. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, though. Buy hey, what do you want for a guy nearing forty who likes to eat and doesn’t exercise? However, the term that stuck in his mind when thinking about Ezra’s naked body wasn’t ‘fat;’ it was ‘chubby.’ Like the angel cherubs on the prints that Anthony’s mother was so fond of that she’d hung them all over the house. He’d found them appallingly insipid. But Ezra…his body had felt like _home._

_‘Like home?’ Where did that come from?_ _That’s ridiculous._

He continued to dwell on the previous night, despite the distractions of the day.

Funny. You’d think if you slept with an older guy, he’d be experienced, show you something new, and in that, Ezra had almost seemed like a virgin. In spite of that (or maybe because?), it had been surprisingly good. Ezra had let him take the initiative. That didn’t bother Anthony. On the contrary. He preferred to be in control. He clearly remembered the moment when Ezra’s nervousness had given way to confidence as he gazed into his eyes; when Ezra had – temporarily – stopped asking questions and allowed himself to let go. Anthony had found it endearing.

_He really does seem like a good person. But he thinks about things too much. And he doesn’t give himself enough credit. It’s like he doesn’t realize how fascinating he is._ _And funny, too._

_Wow. Settle down. It was a good fuck; we’ll do it again tonight and he’s leaving tomorrow._

The day seemed to last forever.

 

About 19h, Anthony, freshly showered and changed, arrived at Ezra’s cottage. Ezra opened the door with a smile.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

The young man nodded. They stood there, exchanging anecdotes about their day. Anthony started to get restless. What was this need for small talk? Attempting to put himself at ease, he looked over the books scattered on the coffee table. Choderlos de Laclos, Fred Vargas, Lautréamont, Romain Gary, Flaubert…quite a variety, if his recollections from high school were correct.

“Do you want to go get something to eat…”

“You.” Anthony cut him short. “You’re all I want right now.”

Ezra put down his glass. They kissed until impatience and desire pulled them up the narrow staircase to Ezra’s bedroom.

 

Anthony assumed that, like last night, he’d be the one to call the shots, but Ezra obviously hadn’t been briefed on the game plan. The latter disengaged himself from Anthony’s wandering hands and commenced to undress him as one might page carefully through a new and precious book. He looked at Anthony with a degree of adoration that frankly made him feel a bit uncomfortable. Ezra shrugged off his own clothes before returning once more to taste Anthony’s tongue. With an anticipative smile, he broke the kiss and pushed Anthony down on the bed. Gently but firmly, he rolled Anthony onto his stomach, placing one knee on either side of his hips.

With deliberate movements, Ezra massaged Anthony’s neck and shoulders, firm circles around his shoulder blades, tender strokes down the nubs of his spine. He retraced the trail with kisses, down his lower back to the cleft of his buttocks. With a groan, Anthony sank his pelvis into the mattress, then arched slightly. When Ezra leaned over with an intimate whisper, “I’ve been thinking about doing this for days,” his erection brushed against Anthony’s backside. Anthony quivered, anticipating Ezra’s next move.

Instead, Ezra merely rolled him over like a limp rag doll, his appreciative growl providing the bass counterpoint to Anthony’s pants of frustration. There was something deliciously disorienting about allowing himself to be manipulated like this. He wasn’t used to the loss of control. He struggled to open his eyes.

Ezra was watching him, a satisfied smile illuminating his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes had grayed, and Anthony no longer wanted to hold back. He attempted to sit up, but Ezra caught his fingers in his own and pinned his hands to the pillow, kissing him on the neck and nibbling the lobe of his ear before whispering, “Don’t be in such of a hurry.”

Despite his obvious arousal, Ezra took his time. Anthony was almost sure there was not a patch of his skin that hadn’t been explored by Ezra’s fingers, lips, tongue. It was almost too much sensation – as if his body was too limited to hold it in. He was not sure how much longer he could last. He started to beg, but bit his lip. But then he saw his lover’s reaction. Underneath the desire, his delightful realization of having accomplished a miracle that hadn’t seemed possible.

So Anthony begged again.

Ezra answered his supplication with joyful enthusiasm.

 

Finally sated, Anthony lay on top of Ezra, his head on his chest. He felt drained but strangely reassured. He had the urge to say something; not momentous, but perhaps just “It feels right being here with you.”

But he held back his words.

_Don’t become one of those guys incapable of a meaningless one-night stand._

In a few hours, Ezra would be returning to England.

Anthony didn’t want to fall asleep. He wanted to remember every last minute. But the comfort of lying next to Ezra crumbled his resistance.


	12. 16 July 2016 (day 12)

Ezra hadn’t forgot to set his alarm. He had resolved to wake an hour earlier than necessary, to steal a few more moments with Anthony. They made love once more, then showered and breakfasted together. Conversation was sparse, intermixed with poignant intervals of silence. Ezra committed every detail to memory. His taxi was due at noon to take him to the airport.

Anthony prepared to leave for work.

“I’ll come down to the beach and say goodbye to you,” proposed Ezra – to hell with what Matthew had said about his sentimentality.

“I’ll be sure to be at your usual spot a little bit before noon.”

 

Packing his suitcase and tidying the cottage occupied Ezra’s morning. He tried to focus on what he was doing instead of the strange sensation of time moving both too fast and too slow.

 

At the designated time, he headed to the beach. Anthony was already waiting. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as Ezra offered an embarrassed shrug.

“Well… my taxi will be here soon.”

“Yes.”

Anthony pulled a paper bag from his cart and handed it to Ezra.

“A chocolate donut. For your trip.”

Without taking notice of the vacationers around them, Ezra impulsively gave him a kiss.

“You’ve just made me lose my female customers,” Anthony joked.

Ezra’s face contorted in a grimace, but the young man erased it with a second kiss before slowly releasing.

“It was nice getting to know you.”

 _Yes. It will be a beautiful memory. Don’t ruin it now,_ Ezra ordered himself.

“For me, likewise.”

 

But he sensed a bit of hesitation on Anthony’s part. An almost-indiscernible crack in his shell. Ezra took a chance.

“I’m sorry if you think this is a bad idea. But if I don’t say it, I’ll regret it. I would love to see you when you come to London. If…if you want to.”

He remembered to breathe again when he saw a delighted grin light Anthony’s face.

“I’d really like that,” he responded.

 

Ezra stammered, “So…uh…let me give you my number.”

The young man entered it into his phone. It seemed to take longer than normal. Then Ezra’s phone rang with a snippet from Stravinsky’s ‘Song of the Nightingale.’ He stuck his hand in his pocket to check it, but Anthony put a hand on his arm.

“I just sent you a message, so now you have mine as well. But…don’t read it yet.”

Ezra nodded.

“The taxi should be here by now. I…I have to go.”

“I know. I’ll see you soon.”

One last kiss before they parted. At the verge of the beach, Ezra couldn’t help but turn around. He waved to Anthony, who waved in return.

 

The taxi had just started to pull out when Ezra couldn’t wait any longer. He opened his messages to read Anthony’s note: _Okay, maybe there is a Plan._ _Wait for me. I’ll be there 1 Sept._

He counted. 46 days. It seemed like a lot. But it was sufficient for everything he wanted to do: start jogging at St. James’s Park, finally rid his flat of the last items Matthew had left behind…maybe even start the novel he’d wanted to write for so long.


End file.
